What Abigail Did Tha Summer by Ben Aaronovitch (best ebook reader ubuntu TXT) 📗

tell him, I will,’ I say and Fleet nods.

‘As you like,’ she says. ‘The world is full of invisible currents. Do you know what makes the wind blow?’

‘The air flows from high pressure areas to low pressure areas,’ I say, because some of us were paying attention in geography.

‘Do you know what causes areas of high and low pressure?’ she asks, and I’m about to say of course I do when I remember that Peter says you can learn more when you listen than when you speak. True, he’s thinking of police interviewing technique, but it works for other stuff as well.

I shake my head.

‘It’s caused by the interaction of the radiant heat of the sun and the surface environment of the Earth,’ she says, and I think she could have just said that the sun heats some places faster than others, but say nothing because . . . listening.

‘And this interaction exists at multiple interrelated scales,’ she says, and throws her arm in the air and sweeps her hand in a big circle. ‘From the Hadley cells that drive the trade winds to the localised heat differential that creates the pleasant breeze we’re enjoying now.’

And there is a cool breeze coming off the swimming pond, still with that suspiciously fresh salt sea tang.

‘Isn’t that you?’ I ask. ‘Aren’t you making that happen?’

‘Yes,’ she says, and Thistle giggles behind her hand. ‘But it’s the same thing. And the wind is just one current in the biosphere. There’s the currents of the sea, of the animals, of people and’ – she waves her hand again – ‘other things.’

‘Other things?’

‘Other invisible things.’

I’m getting bare vexed with the whole Dumbledore teaching approach here. Obviously Fleet means that the not-quite-missing kids are caught up in an invisible current but can’t bring herself to just say that, because . . . who knows? Coolness, probably.

‘My love,’ says Fleet, reaching up to place a hand on Thistle’s cheek. ‘She can see the wind while I cannot.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘What colour is it?’

‘It is the same colour as the breath you used to speak your question,’ she says.

Fleet speaks quickly – trying to keep the chat where she wants it.

‘I can see the flow of water through the landscape,’ she says.

‘You can see that?’

‘Maybe feel would be more accurate,’ says Fleet. ‘Sense certainly. My point being, some currents are visible to some people and not to others.’

‘But we can measure the wind,’ I say. ‘We don’t have to see it to do that. We use instruments, don’t we?’

‘Precisely,’ says Fleet, looking smug ’cause she thinks she’s outsmarted me and made me think for myself. Olds are like this, but I know who Socrates was – he was in an episode of Horrible Histories.13 ‘But before we had barometers and anemometers and radar,’ says Fleet, ‘people had other ways to read the wind. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

I’m bare tempted to say no just to vex her, but I know what I need to do now and I have to be getting on with it.

‘Yep,’ I say and jump up. ‘Thanks for all your help – laters.’

But, before I can escape completely, Thistle is at my side. She takes my elbow and draws me away from the picnic and into the cool shade of a tree.

‘A word in your shell-like before you go,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about making a sacrifice.’

She puts her arm around my shoulder and I feel a weird thrill, but I can’t tell if it’s her or me. That’s the trouble with the fae – they got bare fluid boundaries.

‘Whatever you sacrifice, however important it is to you personally, it doesn’t put an obligation on the likes of my love,’ she says, and presses something into my hand. I look – it’s my Samsung. ‘It just gets their attention. And that’s not always a good thing.’

When I press the button on the Samsung it boots up.

‘I added my number,’ she says. ‘But only for emergencies.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘You just remember who it was who handed it back,’ she says, and lets go of my shoulders. Then she kisses me on the forehead and my mind is full of fluff and multicoloured party balloons. ‘Have fun,’ she says and releases me. ‘Make trouble.’

13 A rather splendid BBC children’s programme about history with sketches and songs. You really should ‘check it’ as Abigail might say.

17

George Oboe Sugar Charlie Fox

I’m walking away from the women’s pond and thinking about invisible currents.

Natali came looking for me just as Jessica came looking for Simon. Once could be an isolated event, twice could be a coincidence, but if Goth Girl had recruited Nerd Boy then we were looking at a pattern.

So, what can we tell from that?

One: Natali knew me, Jessica knew Simon – if Goth Girl knew Nerd Boy, then maybe the recruiters recruited people they knew.

Two: so far nobody had gone missing permanently, that we knew of, so people weren’t being lured somewhere to have their brains sucked out. Or at least not on their first visit, anyway.

Three: first visit to where?

Four: none of the recruiters or their targets were olds – or even old enough to drink.14 Invisible currents, said Fleet, each driven by the interaction of different forces and before we had proper instruments . . . People had other ways to read the wind.

By watching the clouds, I reckon, and seeing what blew in which direction.

As I get to the top of Millfield Lane, Indigo leaps out of the bushes that surround the public toilets and into my arms.

‘You’re alive,’ she says as I stagger. ‘The dogs didn’t eat you.’

Foxes, I learn, don’t go into the women’s bathing pond. At least, foxes don’t go in twice.

‘I need some surveillance done,’ I say as Indigo squirms herself into a comfortable position over my shoulders.

‘Came top in my class,’ says Indigo smugly. ‘I’m practically invisible.’

‘I noticed,’ I say, because she’s bare heavy and if she thinks she’s staying there for more than a minute